The Missing Eyes
by Robin Purdy
Summary: After the fall. Sherlock's life in hiding, with Molly as his only key to the outside world. He is bored, obviously, and so takes the first case he can, undercover. Also has to fight his growing feelings for Molly. This story, unless I change my mind, is now permanently discontinued. I apologize.
1. Chapter 1

_**I hope this fan fic is not that bad... It's my first mystery, so please be patient with me if it isn't that great. Also, don't hate me for having this in Sherlock's POV, because I know it is quite impossible to duplicate what goes on in that man's head, but I am trying as hard as I can.**_

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><p><em><strong>This story is set one month after "The Fall".<strong>_

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><p><em><strong>Sherlock Holmes<strong>_

Bored. Boredboredboredboredbored. I hated just sitting in Molly's apartment, day after day, not doing cases or talking with John. God, I missed him so much.

My experiments were going well. Molly was able to get a microscope from Bart's, and I spent most of my day looking at different pollens or bacteria. I was working on the cure to the common cold, but it got boring after a week.

I needed a puzzle, something to solve. I also needed to get out of the flat. I had already searched the whole flat, reading books, finding hiding places (I admit, the loose floorboard took me a while to find), and just making a complete mess.

Of course I don't care. But Molly does.

She has been very helpful, and I do fully appreciate her hard work, but she's not exactly as good of a flatmate as John.

Two things that she would not allow were my nicotine patches and my hand gun. She had gotten rid of the gun after two days because I had taken to shooting her wall. She was not very happy about_ that _when she got home from work.

I hopped out of her plush red armchair and pranced across the room, swinging the refrigerator door open and taking out a plastic bag full of tongues.

"Alright..." I sighed, swabbing one of the tongues and putting the sample under the microscope.

The pink cells looked frosted, almost crystalized. Much more frozen than the tear glands that were in the fridge for the same time. I made a note in my head, and put it under the file science; anatomy (a/n: I figure Sherlock has a filing system in his head).

Ugh. Every time I finished doing something, I was immediately bored.

At that moment, Molly walked in. She was wearing a beige sweater and an orange blouse, that looked more wrinkled than usual. Her hair was unraveled from its bun and hung around her shoulders. She carried two plastic bags that had "Woo Wong Chinese Gourmet" which were probably take-out.

"Busy day?" I asked, leaning back in my chair, hands behind my head.

She scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion and surprise. "How do you know that?" she said, setting the bags on the table beside the microscope.

"Obvious, isn't it?" From her still confused expression, I guessed it wasn't. I sighed heavily and explained.

"Your hair is down, which it never is, which means that it fell out, but you were too busy to notice. You've wiped your eyes several times, probably from sweat or sleepiness-"

"How did you know I rubbed my eyes?"

"Your eyeshadow is smudged," I said, waving it away like it was an annoying fly. "Anyway, you bought take-out from the only Chinese restaurant on the way from Bart's to here. That implies that you didn't want to bother with making dinner, and you didn't even go out of your way to go to a decent place. Next time, I'd suggest Frank's Deli. You might not get food poisoning."

She shifted nervously on her feet, then said, "Ok. They had a dead body. Lestrade was there forever."

I looked inquiringly up at her. "What was the cause of death?"

She looked away and started busying herself with the take-out boxes.

I got up and made her put down the styrofoam box in her hands. "There's no need. You know I never eat when I'm busy."

"B-but you're not busy-"

"Yes I am, I have a case!"

"How could you possibly have a case? You don't even know how she died!"

"No, I don't, not until you tell me," I said, taking her shoulders and slightly shaking them.

She threw her arms up in the air. "I'm not going to-"

I pouted my lip, and widened my eyes. "Please? I'm so bored... I haven't had anything to do all week..."

She looked into my eyes and frowned a little.

"I promise not to put body parts in the fridge for an entire month."

She seemed to have given up resisting. "Fine, fine. It was a woman in her late 20s, whole body burned. Only thing that wasn't burned beyond recognition was her face."

"What makes this one so strange?"

"She was found in a pool, Sherlock, her lungs filled with water. She drowned. And one other strange thing..."

"What? What?" I said, tightening the grip on her shoulders.

"Her eyes were carved out."

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><p><em><strong>Don't forget to review and tell me what you think! Comments that tell me what's bad are welcome! Tell me if you like it in Sherlock's POV, or if I shouldn't even try again. Hope this was a good Chap and I'll try to write up another one soon!<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thanks to all that commented on my story! I'll try to put some of your advice to use :) (I made a few changes too... hope you like them!)**_

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><p><em><strong>Sherlock Holmes<strong>_

Finally, a thing that was mildly interesting. I also had a case! I let go of Molly and went over to her closet, where my coat and scarf were. I started to put my black coat on, popping up the collar and pulling my navy blue scarf around my neck.

"What are you doing?" Molly said, scurrying over to me.

"Going out," I said.

Molly ran to the door and stood in front of it, blocking my way. "Sherlock, you can't, remember? You're supposed to be dead. You can't just barge into Bart's and act like everything's back to normal."

"Oh, but Molly, I'm not going to Bart's. I'm going to the library."

"The answer is still no, Sherlock. Just think, what if John or Mrs. Hudson saw you walking down the streets of London? What would happen?"

I discarded the thought. I was able to get around without _anyone _seeing me. I would be fine.

"Molly," I said, a bit sternly, "let me through."

"No," she said, almost yelling, and locked the door with her key. "The only way out now is with this key, Sherlock. And I'm not giving it to you."

"And you think I wouldn't be able to find it?" I said. "Go ahead, hide it. See if I care." I leaned in, inches from her face. "Because there is no hiding place I don't know about. You know that hidden tile that is next to the fridge? Yeah, I found out about it. Really interesting, the entry you made on December 12 in your Diary."

Molly grew red in the face and turned away from me. "Why do you always hurt me?"

Without answering, I stomped into my room and slammed the door. Why was she so human?

I needed to get that key. It was the only way I could get more information. I sat down on the bed, thinking. I knew every hiding place. She would have to put the key somewhere there, except for when she went out, because obviously she'd bring the key with her. I had to acquire the key at night, and be able to do all my studying at night, too.

She was probably going to hide the key in that fake book on the third shelf. She had most of her small prized possessions inside, a key chain, a small paper doll with a yellow dress, and a green yo-yo. It was an excellent place to hide a small object, and she doesn't know that I already know where it is.

I don't know why she had the key chain, paper doll, and yo-yo. They were obviously not her's. She treated things with such care, and the paper doll had a tear and the yo-yo had no string. It was probably some tokens from her childhood, kept for sentiment.

I took off my coat and scarf and laid down on the bed, trying to make up plausible ideas of how someone could drown _and_ burn.

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><p>I stayed in my room for the rest of the evening, waiting for her to go to bed. The water ran, and I knew she was taking a shower, it stopped, and then her soft footsteps finally went into the room next to mine. I heard drawers opening and closing, and her noisily bustle around, until it was quiet.<p>

I waited five more minutes, just for good measure. I slipped out, stepping over the squeaking floorboard right in front of my room. I wore padded slippers, so that my footsteps wouldn't make noise. I tiptoed (a/n: I can't imagine Sherlock tip-toeing, but he did it somehow) over to the bookcase, and reached for the book "The Count of Monte Cristo". She had moved it to a different shelf, as if _that_ would throw me off.

The reason why the book had caught my eye before was because all of the other books in the case were new, just barely released, and yet she had a copy of this old book. The spine looked like it would crumble with the smallest touch and _was _very dusty, but it seemed that when she moved it she cleaned it off.

I opened it carefully, and instead of pages, there was a small box with a few objects in it. I was correct; the key was laying right on top. I chuckled softly to myself, thinking, 'You need to get better hiding places, Molly.'

I unlocked the door, making sure that it didn't make a noise as I opened it.

Once I was in the hall with the door closed and the key in my pocket, I dashed down the stairs and out into the brisk night air. No one was about, which was a good sign. I breathed in the air in great gulps, glad to be back outside. The last time I was out was on my, er, _Moriarty's _funeral.

For a second, I thought I felt something squirm in my stomach as I remembered what John had said to my gravestone, but it was probably just the excitement of being outside.

I nearly ran down the block and around the corner, but I quickly backtracked into an alley as I saw who was around the corner.

It was John, with a woman, walking down the street, arm in arm. His _companion_ was a businesswoman, and worked in the center of the city. She had curly blonde hair that was in a new, fashionable, style, that was not too much over-the-top, which would mean she had a formal job. She wore a pressed pencil skirt and formal jacket, professional attire that means it could be worn for many different occasions (a date, conference, etc.). She had forgotten to put in her contact lenses because she was stumbling a lot. It could possibly be her high-heels, but with her job she would wear those kind of shoes regularly, and would be used to wearing them. It wouldn't be likely for her to stumble in them. The woman was laughing, and John was smiling, but it was a very weak smile. In his eyes, I thought I saw an emptiness that wasn't there before. As they passed the alley that I was hiding in, John gazed into it. For a split-second, I thought he had seen me, but he seemed to think I was a trick of the light. Once they had gone, I went deeper into the alley, looking for a more stealthy way to get to the library.

But I found that I was not alone in that alley. A man, big and muscular, came into my view. It seemed like he had been waiting for me. But, did he know who I as? Did he know that I was still alive?

Molly had been right. I shouldn't have left the flat.

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><p><em><strong>Hoped you liked it! Please comment! :) You all can start giving ideas on who the suspect is and how they did it too! :P <strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Bwahahahahah! I'm leaving you with a much longer cliffhanger than you anticipated! You'll have to wait longer for the outcome of Sherlock's encounter with the big man... I'm trying to act like Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat... tell me if I'm succeeding.**_

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><p><strong><em>John <em>**_**Watson**_

Emma Clearton was fun, clever, and above all else, caring. She knew my hurt and loss, but there was one problem. She didn't understand it. She also wanted me to forget _him_. She wanted me to only think of the future, and not the past.

Emma worked at a bank (in fact the same one where _he_ and I solved a case for). She was always so formal and straightforward. She had to ditch almost every other date because there was a surprise meeting at the bank. WE barely spent any time together, and I felt like calling it off, but I really needed someone to hang around with.

I couldn't recover from the grief of Sherlock dying. Sometimes I would imagine or pretend that Sherlock was still alive. In fact, just a moment ago, I thought I had seen Sherlock's face in the alley, but I had to be dreaming. My mind still had a fresh image of him, his curly black hair, and darting electric green eyes. I especially missed the way he would pop up his coat collar and set his face so that his cheek bones would appear a bit unnerving. But Sherlock was dead, and imagining him would not change that.

"John, what are you thinking about?" Emma asked, grasping my hand. Her's felt cold and unloving, and it just made my heart heavier.

"Nothing, Em."

Emma stopped. "You were thinking about him again, weren't you?" She looked at me accusingly, like I had done something against the law.

"No, I wasn't," I said, hoping she would accept my lie.

"Yes you were. You had that look again."

"What look?"

"You always look happy when you think of him."

I looked down at my feet, thinking of what to say.

"That's because I _am_ happy when I think of him."

Emma looked at me with disgust. "Fine," she said. "If you want to live in the past, you can do that. Why would I care?"

She then stormed off, leaving me alone on the street. Just to make things even worse, it started to rain. Holding my jacket above my head, hoping it was waterproof, I tried to find a good place to stay during the storm.

The closest place I knew of was Molly's, and so I set off to her flat.

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><p>The hallway to Molly's room was warm and welcoming compared to the rain outside. It was now pouring... I could hear it pound the roof, and I knew it would be a while before it settled down.<p>

I rapped Molly's door, praying that she would be kind enough to let me in for a nice, warm cup of tea. I heard quick footsteps and the door slowly opened a small crack. Molly's face peeped out into the opening.

"Oh, hello John," Molly said, smiling her small, quaint smile.

"Hi. Er, it's raining outside, and I was just outside your flat, and I thought that I could stay here till the storm passes-"

She shifted her feet, as though she was nervous about something. She glanced back in her apartment and then back at me. "Uh, tonight's not a good night, John. I have, erm... company."

"Oh," I said. "_OH. _Right. Sorry for intruding-"

"Oh no, it's fine. Well, I'll see you sometime soon..."

"Bye," I said, waving as she closed the door and I turned away and left.

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><p>The only other person who lived anywhere <em>near<em> here was Sally, and I _definitely _didn't want to visit her. I tried to not talk, or even look at, her or Anderson, in case they would say, "Told you so."

I hated both of them. I hated them so much that just thinking about them made me want to wring their necks. They were the start of Sherlock's downfall, with the help of Moriarty. There was only one true thing that Sally had ever said to me.

_Someday we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.*_

It was true. He had given us a body. The thing was, it was his own. I remember, Molly was devastated. She was the one who performed the autopsy. She kept on insisting that she should do it, even though she cried every ten minutes. She wouldn't let anybody near the body, not even me. I thought it was selfish at first, but then I realized it was an act of kindness. She didn't want me to see him like that, even though I had seen him right after he... after he...

I suddenly realized that I was on my street. I was in a new flat, a few blocks away from 221, because I couldn't bring myself to go in. I sighed, took out my key, and entered my flat. I wished Mrs. Hudson would be there, with a tray of biscuits and fresh tea, and Sherlock would be sitting in his usual armchair, playing the violin and jabbering on about some new insane science experiment he was working on.

But there was no Mrs. Hudson, nor any biscuits or tea. Just a plain room with a tiny bed pushed in the corner and a table with my laptop on it. There was no mess, or skull, or violin, or books, or... Sherlock.

With a sudden drop in my stomach I thought, 'There never will be'.

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><p><strong><em>Please review! I really like tips and comments that make my story better. I hope you liked it!<em>**

**_*I do not own this quote. This quote belongs to the creators of Sherlock. Sorry to burst your bubble. _**


	4. Chapter 4

_**_**Thanks to MarshmallowLove and GhilbliGirl91 for all of their help :)**_**_

_**_**Sorry. I'm gonna make you wait ooone more chapter. I really am sorry :/ Hope you won't die from waiting.**_**_

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><p><em><strong>Molly Hooper<strong>_

That was a close one, I thought as I closed the door to John. I felt bad for him, I couldn't imagine what he must be going through. But it would have been impossible to let him in to the flat... It was so _Holmesy;_ the books strewn all around the place, the microscope, the toenails sitting on the counter. He would know quicker than anyone else that Sherlock was here.

I had to hand it to John, living with Sherlock was quite the challenge. He never cleaned up anything, not even clothes or disembodied limbs from experiments. He had insisted on getting a violin, and although it was very cheap and sounded more like someone stepping on a cat, he played it when he was _completely_ bored. His sarcastic and challenging behaviour was hard to deal with, and I hated it when he snooped around. The worst thing was him reading my diary... It was a total invasion of my privacy.

"Don't worry," I called to the closed door of Sherlock's room. "It was nobody important."

I bit my lip, hating myself for lying to Sherlock, but it had to be done.

He didn't answer. He was still being stubborn, I guess. I don't think he ever gave up on an argument. I bet he would give up his soul just to get in the last word.

I don't know what I saw in him. It definitely wasn't because of his "lovable" personality. He treated me horribly one second, and then the next he would be flirting. Although I knew it wasn't really being _flirty_. He just wanted something from me, and I, being so lost in love with him, didn't really care. I would just do anything to have him like me.

I used to be a mouse around him, obeying every order, but things have changed. Now he has to do as I say, because I am the one letting him share my flat and I helped him die. Er, that's not what I meant...I helped fake his death.

But he seems sadder than before. I can see it in his eyes. There is something missing. I saw a bit of the old look come back to them when I told him about the case, a fire burning inside. But there was still something that, no matter how hard I tried, would never come back. The only person in the universe who could really spark something in Sherlock's eyes was John.

Yes, I was jealous that Sherlock loved John more than me, but really all I wanted was for him to be happy. There are plenty more fish in the sea. There were just none like him. The cloud-like grey eyes, curly black hair, and his inhuman intelligence. All that I knew was that I would never be able to fully let _him _go.

I yawned and decided to made some coffee for him_, _black, two sugars, just the way he liked it, and tea for myself. I thought he might like that. I heated up a cup put in the two sugars for him, and set it in front of the door.

Afterwards I went back to bed, but I didn't fall back to sleep for a long time. It must have been knowing that the man of my dreams, this awful, but perfect man was in the room right next to mine.

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><p>I awoke at five in the morning, still but restless, so I got up instead. Stretch<em>ing, <em>and, my body stiff. I half-stumbled out of my room out into the hall. Sherlock _still _hadn't left his room; the mug of tea was still there. I had started getting the feeling that something was wrong, but then decided perhaps that he was just being more stubborn than usual.

Still_, _after I was done dressing, the uneasy feeling was still with me_, _so I went to the bookcase and took down "The Count of Monte Cristo" from the shelf and opened it. Inside there was my brother's yo-yo, and my niece's old paper doll. I shifted the things in the box, looking for the key.

I couldn't find it.

I dumped the contents out of the box and fished around for the key, I finally concluded that it was gone from the box. It had vanished.

Had Sherlock found it?

I ran to his room and knocked on the door.

No answer.

I banged it louder and demanded, "Sherlock, come out now."

Silence. I tried the doorknob, and found it was unlocked. I opened it and found to see an empty room. Sherlock was gone.

I fell against the wall.

"Crap."

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><p><em><strong>Pleeeease review! Thanks :) Promise to have the next chapter in Sherlock's POV.<strong>_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hey sorry it's been such a long time. I know you all have been suffering and want the thing to that cliffhanger I left you so long ago, so, without any further ado, here it is. Enjoy. (P.S. Sorry about the fight scene. I'm not good at describing that kind of stuff, so just go with it.)**_

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><p><em><strong>Sherlock<strong>_

He had been waiting; a pile of cigarette butts were lying on the ground beside him. But had he been waiting specifically for me, Sherlock Holmes, or some random stranger that happened to stroll into this dark alleyway? He advanced slowly towards me taking light steps in elegant strides, and I could tell that he was either a practiced dancer or gymnast. However, he was favoring his left side, stepping gingerly on his right, perhaps because it was injured. I probably should have run, but my feet held me to my spot, refusing to move, out of both fear and curiosity. Who was he? What was his business here?

My first thought of him was that he was big, not by width, but by height. He had to be at least 6'8", and he towered above me, his muscular arms flexing dangerously. He had the body of a gymnast or a basketball player. He drew a long, thin knife from the inside of his jacket, the kind used to filet a fish, perfect for cutting flesh. I noted faint remnants of chalk on the back of his hand; _definitely a gymnast. _When he was nearly a foot away from me, I made my move. I punched him in the face.

I had expected him to fall, or at least seem hurt, but instead I felt my hand break and he smiled. He slashed the air with the knife, and I turned to run.

For once I hated my coat.

Using his quick reflexes, the man reached out for the coat and caught it, pulling me back. He held the knife at my throat, threateningly pressing down upon my skin, nearly slitting it. I stilled, knowing that if I struggled, I would die.

"What do you want?" I asked him, hoping that talking would distract him.

"Something..._special," _he said, sliding the knife up to my chin and along my cheekbones, barely scraping the surface. He was most likely intending to kill me. Fear gripped at me, but I kept my head cool, knowing that panic would just worsen things. I knew that I was an idiot for not running away before; but, when it comes to curiosity, not even the British Government could stop me (which isn't saying much, since it's mostly just Mycroft).

"And what might that be?" I asked, trying to think of a plan to get away. All I needed was time.

"You know, most people like to collect trophies, awards for doing something that is worthyn a. But not me, I prefer something a little more... interesting," the knife stopped right above my eye, and something clicked.

My mind is so strange and complex that sometimes _I _don't even know what I'm thinking until I do what it tells me to do and get a final outcome. It is very brilliant, and so I just go along with it blindly, but it always has an ending, or a summary that I'm sure of. When I say that something clicked, I meant three things suddenly came into my understanding. I don't know how, but they did.

1. This man was planning to kill me, and I needed to get out of here quickly

2. I knew that he was connected to the case that had brought me out here in the first place

And 3., I had a plan to escape.

I reacted immediately. I slammed my foot down onto his right one, which presumably was injured. Surprised at my sudden movement and in pain, the man let go and reached for his foot. I kicked him in the face pushing him to the ground, and running swiftly away from the scene afterwards. He wouldn't come after me because of his foot, and he would not go back out into the streets because he wouldn't want to draw attention to himself.

I ran, not really knowing where I was going consciously, but subconsciously my brain was acting as my own GPS. I did not stop until I heard someone call out my name.

"_Sherlock!"_ I turned toward Molly's voice.

Molly was walking towards me, looking rather frazzled and annoyed.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, pulling me to a darkened entrance to a pub, music blaring from inside.

"Never mind that," I said, waving her off and started walking back to her flat.

"Stop _doing_ that!" she yelled at me, trying to keep up with my quick pace.

"Doing what?"

"Just pushing me away, as if I'm an annoying fly or something! I don't feel respected or-"

"Respect? Is that what you want? Going to be really hard to get," I said, starting to get annoyed.

"What do you mean by that?" Molly screeched. "I helped you fake your own death! I have kept you safe in my flat, trying not to get annoyed by your childish behaviours or the body parts in the kitchen! Isn't _that _enough to earn a little respect from you?"

"I don't respect others, Molly. I only respect myself-"

"And John, and Moriarty, and Mycroft-"

"_Mycroft_?" I scoffed as we arrived at the door to her flat. "Don't make me laugh. I would never respect _him..._"

"So you admit that you respect John and Moriarty," she said as she fumbled with her keys.

"Enough," I said brusquely, pushing her aside and stalking off to my room as soon as she unlocked the door.

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><p><strong>Please review! Hope it was enjoyable :)<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**I did put this as a romance, right? Well, I haven't really shown you any, so here's a bit. Hope you like it.**

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><p><strong><em>Molly<em>**

I was sick and tired of Sherlock... This was the last straw. I had done so much for him, and yet all he does is slam his bedroom door in my face. I always felt so small and weak whenever he was around; but tonight, tonight was different. I was going to stand up for myself.

I took in a deep breath, knowing full well that what I was doing would result in a fight later. I would have to face it, but it was a chance that I was willing to make.

I charged toward his bedroom door, and pounded on it while I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Sherlock! Stop acting like a child and get out here! I have to talk to you."

He was silent, but I stood my ground. This behaviour was to be expected of Sherlock.

I struck the door harder. "I'm not going to stop bothering you until you come out and talk to me."

A moment's silence, and then a quick bustle came from behind the door and I backed away as he opened up his door, glaring at me, eyes narrowed and jaws clenched tightly, and his mouth in a slight frown. Despite my anger at him, I felt a squirm in the pit of my stomach when I saw his face. No matter what expression was upon it, I always thought it was beautiful.

I gave my head a small shake, trying to keep my thoughts straight. We stared at each other for quite a while, trying to see who would give in first. Finally, after a few minutes, Sherlock said, "What do you want?"

"You're bleeding," I said, reaching my hand up to his cheek and touching the cut tenderly, seeing if it needed a bandage. Strangely, he didn't flinch away when I touched him.

"Not surprising," he sighed, "seeing as I had a knife pulled on me, it's a good thing I'm so clever."

"A knife?" I asked, curious. "What happened?"

Sherlock briefly explained the scenario in the alley. I listened to the whole story, eyes wide, entranced. I had nearly forgotten my anger, and Sherlock had cooled down a little too.

"You know, if you had just listened to me, this never would have happened!" I huffed.

"Don't start _this_ again-" Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I won't stop, Sherlock. You need to understand that your life is at stake when you venture outside, as you can tell from tonight. And it's not just you who gets hurt, Sherlock. I would be hurt too. Think about my reputation, after I lied to the others. No one would talk to me anymore. "

He glared at me, and I glared back. "Don't you care about what I feel? I bet that if John had asked you not to go out, you wouldn't even question him. But me? Poor little Molly, she doesn't deserve to have anyone care about _her _feelings. I don't care about what you think of me, Sherlock. Not anymore. You're not leaving this flat."

I felt a bit surprised that I had actually _ordered _Sherlock to stay in the flat, and that I had done it without even batting an eye. He seemed a bit surprised, too.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard exactly what I said, and I'm not saying it again." He went rigid, staring at me with those beautiful eyes. They almost distracted me from what I was thinking. But, I kept my head. I could almost feel the anger pulsing through his veins, making the room deathly still and silent. I could see it traveling up to his silver eyes, trying to pierce invisible darts into my self-conscious. But they didn't. They couldn't. I wouldn't let them, because if they did, if I broke my ground and let him run over me as usual, he would know that he had won. Like always. But _not tonight._

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><p><em><strong>Sherlock<strong>_

I was staring at her, trying to make her back down, like usual. I _never _let anyone order me what to do. Not even John. Well, maybe him.

As I glared into Molly's doe-like eyes, I noticed something. Were they unusually prett- bright, tonight? A spark seemed to have lit up behind them, giving her a kind of youthful glow.

But, it couldn't be. This was Molly, the little mouse, hardly ever uttering a word that was louder than a squeak. Not right now, though. She had just ordered me to do something, as loud as a lion's roar or a bear's growl.

Maybe I had underestimated her.

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><p><strong>Ok, maybe they are both a little ooc, but give me reviews so I can change that! <strong>

**Who says I should do Anderson or Lestrade's POV next? I think it might be interesting. Tell me in a review! *hugs***


	7. Chapter 7

**Yo. Sorry for the long wait, guys. I wanted to do one guy's POV, then a different one, then another, and so... I just couldn't decide how my story was going to go or who's POV it was going to be written in. But hey, I've now got it all down pat, so be happy :) This story has not been beta-read, because I did not want to waste any more time putting it up, so if there is a problem, please tell me in a review! (P.S. I'm sorry if the street names or anything don't make any sense... I don't live in London, thus I do not know how their street system works)**

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><p><em><strong>Anderson<strong>_

Ever since Sherlock died, life had been uphill for me. People started treating me better, because there was nobody calling me an idiot anymore. I left my wife, and am currently staying at Sally's. I even got a raise, which was nice.

Don't think I'm glad he's dead. Well, I am, but it sounds a little inhumane. I like to think that he went on a trip to China and isn't planning to come back any time soon.

The only problem was that there was a pile of unsolved cases, and it was getting higher and higher by the day. Maybe Sherlock was a good detective... But we'll never truly know.

That was why I was very delighted (and a little suspicious) when I found a note on my desk one Monday morning.

It was written in a messy scrawl, and it was very difficult to read, especially since there were several inkblots and places where water had gotten to the words and smudged them.

"_Dear Mr. Anderson,_

_I know that you need help with the Johurgessen case. We both do. Lestrade wishes that he still had dear, sweet, know-it-all Sherlock, and you need to show him that he really doesn't._

_I have information about the case._

_Please come to 32 Forklot Road tonight, and go to the alleyway next to Squidsey's Cuisine. A man in a mask will meet you and ask if you have an appointment. Say that you need to see Mr. S. DO NOT SAY ANYTHING ELSE._

_Hopefully I will see you tonight._

_-S_"

I looked over my shoulder to make sure nobody saw what I was reading. What a pot of gold I had stumbled onto! And it wouldn't hurt to see if they really did have information...

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><p>I decided to do it, although as I left to go "home" that night, I grabbed my gun from my desk drawer and slipped it in my hidden holster that was placed across my chest.<p>

I told Sally that I was going to get some groceries (we were out of soda), and caught a cab, telling him to go to 32 Forklot Road.

I rode the whole way thinking of who gave me the letter. Mr. S. The only person who I knew that had a an S was Sherlock... but he was dead.

When I finally arrived, I walked to the said alleyway. I looked around in it, but it was too dark to see anything.

A deep voice suddenly came from the shadows, and it surprised me.

"Do you have an appointment," it asked.

"Yes, with Mr. S," I said carefully, making sure not to say anything else like the letter had warned. It seemed silly, though, because what could I say that would be bad?

There was a moment of silence, and I wondered what the deep voice was thinking.

Then, there was a new voice that spoke to me, a lighter one, but it still seemed to be dangerous. I could have sworn it sounded familiar.

"Go to Third Star Avenue with some back up. There will be an alleyway beside the address 785A. Be careful, for there is a man with a knife and he is very dangerous. He will try his best to kill you, although he is a little slow in the mind. Don't let him see you. Arrest him, and question him at Scotland Yard. He will tell you everything about the Johurgessen case."

"But why can't you tell me?" I asked. I was not really in the mood to go to the other side of London just to get information about a case at this time of night. It would be much more convenient to just have this 'Mr. S' tell me.

But Mr. S never answered me. I stood in that dark alleyway for quite a while, waiting for him to speak to me, but I decided that he wasn't going to say another word. Perhaps he had already left.

I sighed and went back out into the street. There were much more people outside than I expected to see at this time of night. I looked down at my watch. It was now midnight, and Sally was probably sitting at home, steaming and wondering why I was at the Super for so long.

I wasn't very keen to see her, so I decided to go and check to see if Mr. S' information was correct. I hailed a cab, and tried to keep my eyes from drooping. I was so very tired.

When I reached my destination, I had to stifle a yawn as I slowly walked to the alleyway. Mr. S had told me to be careful, but I really didn't see the need to be. Surely the man couldn't hurt me if I had a gun trained on him.

Speaking of guns, I pulled mine out, making sure that the safety was off and it would be ready to fire if need be.

I went into the alleyway. It was nearly as dark as the last one I had been in, but a streetlamp that stood in front of it shed a bit of dim light near the entrance.

I could see the red light of a lighted cigarette butt, but it soon fell to the floor and was extinguished.

A tall man came walking into the light. His appearance made me scared a little bit, but I held my ground. That is, until he pulled out his knife. It was long and thin, and that was when I automatically started backing up, and also when I peed myself.

"Hello," he said in a cool voice. "Come to help me?"

I then pulled out my gun and pointed it at his heart. "Stop!" I nearly yelled. "Or I'll shoot you."

He stopped advancing towards me, and he lifted his hands in the air.

"Drop the knife," I commanded, and he did, his face looking a bit scared.

I then searched my pockets, looking for my radio, and making sure that the gun was still pointing at him.

When I finally found the radio, I buzzed in.

"This is Officer Anderson. I need backup. The address is the side of 785A, Third Star Avenue. Come at once. Over."

"We'll be there in five minutes, Officer Anderson."

As I smiled slyly at the man for catching him, I thought about how Sally was going to kill me once I came home.

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><p><strong>So, who's Mr. S? Is this man with the knife really the killer? Or just a decoy? Leave your thoughts in a review! I hope you liked it! ~I'll try and update the next chap more quickly~ Love you all!<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**This specific chap is in the point of view of a mysterious man. You don't know who he is, and I'm not going to tell you. I just have to tell you this: He is kind of the mastermind behind all of this, and it is much more than just that girl being killed.**

**Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the chap and hopefully you won't get confused, although if you _are_ a little confused, just tell me. I'll try to sort it out :)**

**Plus, I'm sorry if this isn't what they do for England for questioning and stuff, I have no idea of how they do it, and so I got all of my knowledge from American cop shows :/**

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><p><em><strong>The Man<strong>_

I took a sip from my steaming cup of tea, vaguely wishing that I could have more cream. I stared down at the monitor, which lit my face up with artificial light. A man was sitting down in a steel chair, behind a steel table, with steel handcuffs on. Steel must be the new _thing _down at Scotland Yard. The room wasn't much to look at, just dull, dark grey walls and floor. But the man was something else. He had a bloody bandage wrapped around the side of his head, and a swollen black eye. He must have put up a hell of a fight when they tried to take him in. He had a surly look in his eyes, but kept a straight, unemotional face. It wouldn't be very fun to mess with him.

I checked to see if the recorder was on, and then sat back and waited for the confession.

It was several minutes until DI Lestrade came in to question the man, and he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Not surprising, considering that it was three in the morning, but I had only been notified thirty minutes ago, awoken from a peaceful slumber, and yet here I was, hair slicked neatly back, sitting in a nice, primped suit, and a small dash of colone making me smell very inviting. I would doubt that Lestrade smelled like a pig with horrible morning breath, trying to be covered with candy mints.

Amateur.

But I stopped degrading Lestrade in my mind once the man began to give his confession. I had to make sure he said the right thing perfectly, or he would never see dawn.

He gave his lines with acute mastery, and it was evident that Lestrade was slowly beginning to believe him.

Finally, after the man gave his account, Lestrade asked, "Is there anyone else working with you?"

This was the moment. I leaned close to the screen, boring holes into the man's skull, intent on killing him if he slipped on one word.

"There is the man who hired me," the man said, and Lestrade leaned closer towards the man too.

"Who?"

"He said his name is John Watson," aid the man. "He was short, and had light brownish hair. He paid me to do this."

I could tell that Lestrade wasn't believing him, even though I couldn't see his face.

"I refused to do it at first," continued the man. "But he held a gun up to me, and said that if I didn't do it he'd shoot me. I think he was from the army; he had that kind of presence to him, and besides, he was using an army revolver."

Lestrade was starting to believe, although I could tell he didn't really want to.

"Do you have any more evidence?"

"Yeah. He said he'd pay me tomorrow night. Just wait in that alley where you found me and you'll find him."

It was done. I turned the screen off, and turned over to my computer, typing a letter to Mr. John Watson, and soon, he would be in my hands.

I would destroy his reputation just as Moriarty had done with his detective friend, and maybe, if I was lucky, I could catch Sherlock with him and finish them both off permanently.

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><p><strong>Please review and I hope you enjoyed it!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**_Greg Lestrade_**

I didn't want to believe it. Hell, how _could_ I believe it? This was John we're talking about. John wouldn't hurt anyone unless it was to save someone else. And I know that he would try to do it in the least painful way possible. He wouldn't hire _that_ maniac to do the job, either.

I could possibly think Sherlock would do it, but never in a million years would I presume John would.

But facts were facts, and when we went to where the killer described, there John was, waiting. We took him completely off guard.

He kept saying that he had nothing to do with it, that he had gotten an anonymous letter in the post telling him to go to that place and curiosity got the better of him. He said he had never heard of the victim nor killer before.

But there was just so much against him, and there was no way to prove the things he said.

It was strange talking to him again, and very awkward given the circumstances. I hadn't talked to him since Sherlock's death, and he hasn't taken it well. He looks so hollow, like the life has been sucked out from him, and thin, like he only eats enough to keep him going. His eyes have a kind of empty look to them, and it feels like something is missing behind them, almost like his soul. He has none of the earlier personality that used to fill him up, and he walks around like he's a ghost.

When you look at him, it is easier to understand what he did. Because he really isn't John anymore. He's just... a stranger. The average boring person that you could pick out of any crowd and turn into a psycho from one unnerving experience.

Sherlock surely wouldn't be happy about it if he found out how dull John's gotten.

But he wouldn't, of course. Because he's dead.

I don't know why I felt like I lost something that day he jumped off the hospital building. Sure, I lost a great detective who was a unique one in quadrillion, but I feel like I lost something more. Almost like I lost a friend.

Of course, he was kind of like a friend. We had some fun times, like the Christmas party he invited me to (actually John was the one who invited me, but still), and we've had our share of terrifying moments together, like the time when we were both drugged out and imagined a gigantic hound was after us.

You can't help but be close to someone when _that_ happens.

I sat down heavily on my chair, putting my feet on my desk and rubbing my eyes. It had been a long night. My mind was still processing that John had done it.

I needed caffeine. Or water. _Anything_ to get my mind off of the case. I could have milky hot chocolate with dead beetles floating around in it for all I'd care. I went over to the water dispensor, only to find it still upside down.* Why hadn't anyone fixed the damn thing yet? Frustrated, I left the premises in a huff, thinking fresh air might help.

I must have walked for a long time, maybe an hour or even two. I didn't know or care which direction I was going, but I finally sat down on the steps of a random building, trying to gather my thoughts.

John hired someone to kill someone else.

_No, _said a small voice in the back of my head_. This is John we're talking about... He would rather hurt himself than kill that woman so cruelly._

I started to wish Sherlock was still here. He would be able to see the answer as if it had bright, blinking lights around it, with theme music blasting away alongside it. I felt so blind and lost.

"Le-lestrade?" a familiar voice said.

I looked up, and Molly Hooper was standing right in front of me.

"Molly? What are you doing here?" I asked, standing up and subconsciously dusting off my pants.

"I work here," she said, motioning to the building behind me. Sure enough, it was St. Bart's. I _had_ walked for a long time.

"Oh, yes," I said, flushing from embarrassment. We both went silent, Molly looking like she wanted to say something.

"Uh, Lestrade," she said. "Have you found any clues to the case? The one with the girl who was..."

She didn't want to finish the sentence, and I didn't blame her. It was horrible enough to just think of the eyes missing from their sockets and the rest of the body burned to a crisp.

"Actually, we caught the killer just tonight," I said.

Molly brightened. "That's good!"

"Yes..." I said, and my heart tightened.

"You don't seem to be very happy about it," she said quizzically.

I wondered if I should tell her. I wondered if I could trust her with this information. I didn't want it to be released out into the public yet. People already (and still) hate Sherlock, even though he's dead, and we didn't need them to hate his loyal companion too. Not if I could help it.

But I decided that I should tell her. I knew she would't tell anyone else. I might not know her very well, but I did know she loved Sherlock. She still believed, like me, that he was innocent. And maybe that John was innocent, too. Maybe even more.

"He said someone hired him," I said, rubbing my face. I hated saying it out loud. It made it sound more like fact. Like cold, hard, evidence.

"Who? Did he say?"

"Yes," I said.

"Anyone we know?" she said jokingly, not knowing that it really wasn't a joke.

"John," I said.

"John who?"

But I did not need to say it. She looked at my face, and she knew. I could tell.

"Not...not John _Watson?" _she gasped.

I nodded.

She then abrubtly turned around and headed for the street, hailing a cab.

"What are you doing?" I called after her, a bit shocked by her reaction.

"I need to get home," she yelled back, getting into the cab.

"Why?" I called. But she was already gone. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, trying to make sense of it all. Why Molly was acting so strangely, why John hired that killer, even why Sherlock killed himself.

My world was going all topsy-turvy, and I guess the only one in the world who'd be able to figure out why was Sherlock. It was then that I wished the most that he was not dead.

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><p><strong>Please review and I hope you enjoyed it! (I won't be updating next week, so I hope that this semi-long chapter will compensate for it)<strong>

***If you haven't noticed in Reichenbach Fall, the water dispenser was turned upside down... don't know why though**


	10. Chapter 10

**Oh my. It's taken longer to update than I thought. But no worries! This chapter is pretty long (at least it took me a long time to write), so I hope you can forgive me for being so late. And Woo! It's Sherlock's POV!**

**Warning (because I'm paranoid): This chapter gets a bit racy in the middle, but nothing exactly bad... but if you don't like reading about underwear, just skip most of it and read the very end of this chap.**

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><p><em><strong>Sherlock Holmes<strong>_

I was bored yet again. This one had started to become so mind-numbing that I had even started watching crap telly to just get my mind off how dull my life was.

But even that became boring after a minute or two, and I threw the remote at the wall in frustration, smiling when it broke, hoping Molly would get the message.

How could she have taken my experiments? _How_? I had been so careful to keep them away from her so she couldn't accidentally tamper with them.

One question that was much easier to answer was _why _she took them. Surely it was punishment for leaving the flat, although we both made it safely home, and I'm positive no one recognized me.

Except for John.

I got up and started pacing, thinking it over, rationalizing all of my worries with logic. He thought I was dead. He _knew_, with all his heart, that I was gone, no matter how much he didn't want to believe it. I was dead to him, and so even though he saw me, his puny mind would probably think that it was a trick of the light or some other silly excuse.

He would follow my motto; Look at the facts, illiminate the impossible, and whatever remians, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. _The facts_: I was dead. He saw me. _The impossible_: I could not have been there because I was obviously dead. _Conclusion_: Just a trick of the light.

It was quite simple, even for his brain. He was safe, at least for now.

Maybe Molly had been right. I shouldn't have left. Maybe I did deserve my punishment. But accepting the fact didn't cure my boredom. It only made it grow.

And there was only one thing I could think of that was interesting enough to take me away from my apathy, and that was Molly's diary.

Although it lacked in plot and detail, it was still a very amusing read, and would be enough to keep me busy for a couple of minutes.

The only problem was finding it. It was obvious that she wouldn't keep it under the same floorboard. She would probably keep it closer to her, for it's personal and she doesn't want me to read it... again.

So I went to her room, the very heart of where she put her belongings. It was just finding which cavity held her beloved journal.

I gazed around, drinking it all in, trying to decide what places would be the best to look for it.

This had really been the first time I had been inside it, although I had peered in on occasion. The flowery pink wallpaper was one thing that I already knew was there, and so was her queen-sized bed with soft pink sheets that took up most of the space in the tiny room. But there were a few things I had never seen before. She had a pile of old stuffed animals, presumably from her childhood, pushed into a corner and fixed so you could easily see all of their faces. She had no closet, but a mahogany dresser pushed against the wall, and barely had enough space to open its drawers without running into the bed. Generally unlike the flat, which had plain white walls and enough space to walk easily through.

It smelled different than the rest of the flat, too. A mix of cheap perfume, strawberry, and... Molly. There was no other name for the scent. For some reason I became relaxed as it filled my nostrils, and even a bit light-headed. Probably from the perfume, but it strangely wasn't the overpowering smell. It was the _Molly_ smell. I hadn't realized it before, but she did smell decent once she got away from the dead bodies and took a shower.

I shook my head, rearranging my thoughts, and went back to the task I had originally went in to do.

I looked over the room once again, this time analysing it all. The three main places I spotted that she would hide her diary were the bedside table, dresser, and underneath the bed, in that order.

I sat down on the bed and found that it was very soft and comfortable. I turned to the bedside table and turned on the lamp, shedding some yellow light into the room. I pulled open the only drawer, and found only three things. A book for night time reading, a pen, and a notebook. The book was a cheesy romance story, and I briefly flipped through the notebook, mildly curious, only to find that it was a dream journal. How dull.

I set the journal and book back in their place and turned to the dresser, opening up the top drawer, the most likely drawer she'd put the diary. But all that was inside were a dozen jumpers and a few jackets, with one disgusting yellow cardigan, which was probably a gift from her mother. I threw some of the clothing articles to the floor in my haste as I rifled through the drawer, trying to find the diary. I eventually put them back as I discovered that the diary was not there.

I was now down at the bottom drawer, the second-most-likely drawer she'd hide the diary. I barely even flinched when I pulled open the drawer and found that it was where she put her undergarments. I had had enough experience rooting through people's underwaer.

I threw some of them on the floor also, not really caring which way they went. But God, why did she have so many of these things?

There was one thing that caught my eye, although it was not the diary.

It was some black lingerie, tucked down at the bottom of the farthest corner of the drawer, invisible to _ordinary_ people's eyes. I picked it up, wondering why in the world she would buy such a thing. It was expensive and still had the tag, as if she might bring it back to the store any day. I shivered slightly as I imagined her wearing it; black was definitely not her colour. She should have bought red, it would have matched her lips.

Wait. Why was I imagining her wearing it in the first place? How did I know that red was her colour? I threw it back into the drawer, hoping that the thoughts that had passed through my mind would go with it. My face was now in what could only be disgust, but I was not sure if I was disgusted with the piece of clothing or my own thoughts.

That was when I heard the door open and Molly call urgently, "Sherlock!"

I froze. My mind racing. What would she do when she found me in her room, her underwear lying all around me? I quickly picked a few of the garments off the ground and threw them back in the drawer.

I heard Molly's steps come closer, and the opening of doors. She called out my name and knocked on the bathroom door. There was only one place where she hadn't looked. I searched frantically to see if there was a place to hide, only to find one of her undergarments on her bed. I must have thrown it carelessly over my shoulder when I was searching for the diary. I cursed under my breath as I stood up and reached for it. Only a second later Molly opened the door. My feet stumbled over each other and I fell on the bed on my side, holding that one, wretched, piece of underwear.

Molly gasped and dropped her bag, which landed with a klump on the floor. I saw her eyes survey the scene, first looking at me on the bed with her underwear in hand, then slowly down to the floor and dresser, where the lingerie was laying on top. Her face grew redder every second. I didn't dare move a muscle, and I definitely didn't smile, for fear she might think I was seducing her. But I couldn't help growing a bit pink in the cheeks also.

Oh God. I was embarrassed. Why was I embarrassed? How could I be embarrassed? I'm Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes does _not _get embarrassed. But I could still feel the heat in my cheeks. I asked myself again,_ why_ was I embarrassed? I had done this countless times before. But I had never gotten caught.

_Of course you've never been caught, you blithering idiot_, a voice inside my head said. _Everyone else you've searched was either dead, in jail, or out killing someone._

I didn't like that voice. It was annoying.

"S-sherlock?" Molly asked, finally down surveying the scene.

"Yes?" I said, as if there was nothing strange about the situation.

"Wh-why are you holding m-my-?"

I cut her off. "Oh, this?" I twirled the garment with my finger. "Nothing you should worry about. Just an experiment."

"What kind of experiment?" she asked, sounding even more suspicious, but her face grew even redder.

"I needed cotton," I said, quickly thinking up an entire experiment in my head. "I wanted to see how durable it was compared to polyester. Of course, we wouldn't even be in this predicament if you hadn't of taken away my other experiment." I glared at her. It was mostly true anyway. If she hadn't taken my experiment, I wouldn't be searching for her diary.

She turned redder but didn't speak. I wondered just how red she could get as I smiled inwardly.

"Why are you home so early anyway? You were only gone for a half hour." It was my turn to be suspicious.

"Oh, right," she said, closing her eyes and recollecting her thoughts. She seemed to have forgotten. She opened her eyes suddenly, making me jump a little. Her eyes were glazed with worry. "John's in trouble."

"What?" I said, stiffening. Was he hurt? Had he been kidnapped? Was this my fault? I couldn't bring myself to think that John was in a bad situation because of my carelessness.

"Lestrade told me. He said that they believed that John hired someone to kill someone else. Well, at least Sally and Anderson do. Lestrade still has doubts."

Well. Lestrade had a brain after all.

I got up and headed for the door, throwing the undergarment aside. I snatched my coat and scarf on the way out the door. Molly didn't even try to stop me. In fact, she followed me into the streets, and I surprised myself by silently thanking her as we clambered into a cab, making sure my face was concealed from the cabbie.

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><p><strong>Woah. That was long. I hoped you enjoyed it! How will Sherlock be able to help John? Will Lestrade keep believing in John, or will he side with Anderson and Donovan? Please tell me your thoughts in a review :)<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**I am so terribly sorry I have not updated in such a long time! I am so ashamed of myself for keeping you waiting on what will happen to John and such. Anyway, I am going away on yet _another _trip this week, although it will only be for a few days. Hopefully I will be able to write the next chapter next week. Now go enjoy this chap!**

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><p><em><strong>Molly Hooper<strong>_

Sherlock and I were sitting in complete silence. It made me uncomfortable, because it gave me time to think. Time to think about John, time to think about what would happen if Sherlock was caught, time to think about... Well, I tried to block it out of my mind, but it kept jumping back. _Time to think about why he was in my room. _He had told me that he was collecting material for one of his experiments, but I knew that wasn't the case. Even the fantastic, fabulous, wonderful, great Sherlock Holmes could slip up on a lie. And yes, even the meek, small, stuttering, nervous Molly Hooper could see it, even if it was small.

_His cheeks were flushed._

I never really thought that I would ever see Sherlock blush.

"So...um," I said, wanting to talk about it.

Sherlock tensed, but remained silent. I decided to continue.

"What was the _real _reason you were in my room?" Sherlock sighed, and gave me one of his _looks_. The look that means, 'You better shut up now or I'll insult you in the meanest way possible.'

I gulped, almost deciding that I might be better off dropping the subject, but a part of me still wanted to know. "Sherlock, I-"

"Molly," he said with a deep sigh, interrupting me and acting as if he were dealing with a child. "I have absolutely no interest in talking to you right now, especially about that subject. I think John's predicament is what we should be talking about at this instant, wouldn't you?"

He had good reason, even though I was sure he was trying to get my mind off the subject. But, feeling guilty about not thinking of John, I consented and asked, "What are you planning?"

"You'll see," he said as he leaned forward to the cabby and asked for him to drop us off.

"Why are we getting off here? Scotland Yard is at least a few blocks away..." Sherlock shot me another look as the cab pulled to a stop. I hurriedly paid the cabbie as Sherlock climbed out of the cab and ran into a clothing shop.

I followed him, and the first thing I noticed was the smell. Rotten eggs, month-old cabbage, and gym socks. I nearly gagged.

The shop looked old, and the things on the racks looked even older. A hat on a stand had a large, stuffed goose laying on it, which surely wasn't legal. A coat that was right next to me had so much dust on it, I couldn't even see what it's true colour was.

A plump, old woman waddled towards us, smiling widely, showing all of her yellowing teeth. "Hello," she said with fake sweetness.

"Hello," Sherlock said, putting on his charm that he only reserved for people that had something that he wanted. Believe me, I know.

"Is there anything I could do for you, sir?" You could tell that she was already hooked on him. She reminded me of... well, me. Just an older and uglier version.

"I'm looking for some clothes-" he was cut off by her turning around abruptly.

"We have many men's suits..." she said, sweeping her arm towards a rack, brimming with old, dusty, suits. "I'm sure you would look _very_ handsome in this one," she said with a bat of her eyelashes as she held up a particularly disgusting sport-coat, that even Sherlock wouldn't look good in.

But Sherlock took it, holding it up to look at it, and he actually _smiled_. Not a fake smile that he showed to people to make them happy, but a genuine smile. "Perfect."

I didn't realize my mouth was hanging open until Sherlock closed it with his hand. My chin tingled at his touch.

"What about my fiance?" Sherlock asked, turning back to the old woman.

"Who?" the lady and I asked at the same time.

Sherlock nudged me in the shoulder. _Oh. He was pretending _I _was his fiance. _My stomach flipped at the thought.

"My fiance," he repeated, motioning to me. The lady looked at me, angry that Sherlock was 'taken'. Like she would have a chance with him anyway.

"Yes, I believe we _could_ find something for her," the old woman said, sounding bitter now, her sweetness gone. Although, I think I preferred the true bitterness than false sweetness.

"Wonderful," Sherlock said blissfully as the lady led us deeper into the store.

"Is _this," _she held a barf-yellow straight dress that was much too large for me up, "to your liking?"

She glared at me, and I was about to say, 'of course not', but Sherlock had already taken it from her hands and said, "Yes, I think this shall do. Don't you, darling?" I knew it was just an act, but something fluttered in my stomach when he called me darling.

I sighed internally, really not wanting to say yes, but I did just to please him. He _must _have a plan.

"Good. Are there changing rooms?" he asked, looking around, trying to find one.

"Yes, right this way," the lady said, seeming to feel better after picking me a revolting dress.

She showed us the dressing room, and gave us the key, saying that if we needed her just call. Once we were alone, Sherlock charged into the room and closed the door. "Yes!"

"What?" I asked.

"There's a window. It's small, but I think we can fit through."

"What?" I hissed. "We're going to burgle these clothes?"

"Not burgle, borrow. They'll be back on her doorstep by tomorrow."

"I am _not _wearing this dress, Sherlock."

He came out of the room, not dressed in his coat yet. "Come in."

"What?" I said, yet again.

"You really need to enlarge your vocabulary, Molly. Now, come in, we haven't much time," He had the door open for me and was motioning for me to come in. I decided to stop asking questions and to just do what he said. I walked into the small room. With both of us inside, I felt like an elephant inside a cabinet. I couldn't keep from noting our closeness, his arm brushing against mine. He closed the door and the only light was the morning sun streaming in through the small window.

"Change."

I looked at him, incredulous.

"Something wrong?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, something's wrong," I hissed. "I'm not going to change in front of you!"

I glared up at him, and he stared back at me. "You changed your lipstick colour."

I flushed, but did not back down. He was not going to flatter me to get what he wanted again.

He sighed heavily and a fire rose up in his eyes. "I _have _already seen your underwear collection, Molly. This is nothing different."

I shot him another glare, but I knew he was right. "Fine," I grumbled, shedding my coat.

He smiled. Fake. "Good." He proceeded in taking off his coat and shirt. I tried to not look at his bare chest, but it was hard, considering that he was right in front of me.

I tried to distract myself with conversation as I slipped into my awful-looking dress. "Why are we doing this?"

"We were being followed."

"What?"

"Honestly, Molly, you should read a thesaurus. Using the same word four times in ten minutes is very tiring. And yes, a cab had started following us since we left the flat. We had to throw him off. We needed a disguise, and I knew that there is a back alley behind this group of buildings that leads right to Scotland Yard. Plus, we needed a disguise. What is the phrase? Killing two fish with one stone?"

"Birds," I said, utterly amazed that a man with that kind of brain could not remember such a simple phrase.

"Trivia," he muttered, clearly displeased he had messed up the phrase.

After we were both dressed, he dabbed some make-up on both of us, making us look old. He put the make up back in his pocket.

"I carry it with me at all times, in case I evr need a disguise quickly," he explained, opening the window.

"Ladies first," he said with a smile.

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><p><strong>I hope that was enjoyable! And, as always, please review! I love reading your comments!<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**I am so sorry for the terribly long wait! I had planned to update sooner, but life kept getting in the way. Here are some cyber-cookies that I hope will compensate.**

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><p><strong><em>Sherlock Holmes<em>**

I jumped down nimbly from the window without a sound, much unlike Molly, who fell ungracefully into a wooden box, which unfortunately had a cat inside. As I predicted, Molly got flustered and tried to get off of the poor animal, but not without stepping on its tail a few times in the process, making it hiss wildly at her.

She finally made it out of the box, but not without a few scratches on her leg.

"Are you alright?" I asked once she was done inspecting at her so-called "wounds", making sure she wouldn't need bandages until after we were through with our mission.

"Yeah," she grumbled, dusting off her dress. "Wait," she said, looking up at me, wide-eyed. "You...you actually asked me if I was alright."

"Yes, what is wrong with that?" I asked with an exasperated sigh. I never should have asked the question; the conversation was starting to become trivial.

"You just never seemed to care about my well-being before," she said, and she seemed to have stopped breathing, completely breathless at my "caring" for her. if I were to take her pulse, I would bet a thousand quid that it was going at a much quicker pace than what is considered healthy.

"You're my partner, of course I care," I said. Then realizing that it sounded almost like a compliment, I quickly deflected it into an insult. "I wouldn't care at all if you weren't helping me save John." I whisked away from her, heading down the pathway that would get us to Scotland Yard.

I almost thought I heard her murmur, "Yes. John," in a tone that almost sounded as disappointed as a little girl being told she couldn't be a princess, but I must have imagined it.

"Once every hour the security cameras in the holding cell at Scotland Yard provide a small interval where they don't show the entrance," I said at the speed of light, walking at nearly the same pace.

"Could you please explain that a little more slowly?" Molly asked, trying her best to keep up with my wide gait.

I rolled my eyes that even I admit a little over-dramatically and explained more slowly, "There is a certain time every hour when the cameras aren't pointed towards the entrance to the holding cell, which is where I presume they are keeping John. With luck, we can get out quickly enough to not get caught on film. We have to hurry; the next time is in about half an hour."

"How do you know this kind of stuff?" Molly asked breathlessly.

"I had a free hour once," I said, remembering that one day about a year ago where I had spent some free time finding all the security holes in Scotland Yard, preparing for such a time like this.

"You're brilliant," Molly said, before her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. "What I mean-"

"Molly, do us both a favour and be quiet until I tell you to speak," I said bluntly, turning a sharp corner.

Thankfully, she took my advice and was silent the rest of our short walk, saving my brain from her tedious babbling and letting it only concentrate on getting John out of Scotland Yard. I had already made my decision; I wasn't going to hide from him anymore. I was going to reveal that I was alive and well, and then rescue him. There was an 83 percent chance that he was going to be angry, 45 percent chance that he would punch me, and a 10 percent chance that he would refuse to talk to me for a few days, maybe even a week, but it would be worth it.

I stopped as soon as we reached the back lot to Scotland Yard, causing Molly to walk straight into me, toppling us both over. Of course, this was my plan.

"Just go along with me on this," I whispered before I started shouting, "Oi! What're you doin'?" I started to push her around, trying to get to my feet, but purposely fell back down. I expertly slid my hand into her dress pocket and deposited a Rolex watch inside.

Almost immediately, a few officers were trying to pull us apart, myself shouting and trying to fight my way out of their arms, while Molly looked bewildered and ruffled, almost like a kitten that had fallen accidentally into a box and was failing in getting out. I almost smirked, amused by how funny she looked, but had to keep up my disguise, and instead shouted a few insults to the officers who had successfully separated Molly and myself.

I finally drew away from the officers, and with a great flourish, I began the finale.

I slapped Molly.

Full on the face.

And it wasn't very gentle, either.

Everyone froze, especially Molly, and I tried to apologize with my eyes, but it didn't work. She had turned away from me, eyes starting to tear up. This was why I hated to work with women; they get upset too easily.

"That's what you get!" I shouted, still sticking with the plan. "How dare you steal my watch!"

"Sir," one the officers said, finally coming to his senses. "Calm yourself. Now what's this about her taking your watch?"

"She took it. She took my watch. Search her, I know she has it."

There was nothing they could do. They had to at least try to search her.

"Excuse us, ma'am," one of the officers apologized. "Could you please empty all of your pockets?"

Molly did so, and in her hand was the Rolex watch. She looked at me, eyes wide. Good, she was finally catching up.

"You need to come with us," the officer said. "Both of you."

"Oi! What did I do?" I yelled angrily, although inside I was jumping with joy. We were in.

"You hit her!"

"That's not a crime," I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

"It should be," he said, taking my arm and bringing me inside Scotland Yard, Molly close behind me.

Now for stage two.

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><p><strong><strong>I promise that I will have the next chapter up by October 6, and if I don't, you have full rights to send angry messages into my inbox. Please remember to review. Constructive criticism is always welcome!<strong>**


	13. Chapter 13

**Yay! I actually got it done on time! Who would have thought?**

**Thank you all so much for reviewing. Yes, I know it was a bit shocking that Sherlock slapped Molly, but it had to be done.**

**I can't believe over 100 people are following this. It really does blow my mind. And just for that, in celebration, you can all expect a Sherlock/Molly kiss in the next chapter or two. Spoiler alert.**

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><p><strong><em>Molly Hooper<em>**

My face still stung in the place where Sherlock had slapped me. My mind was blank, and the only thing happening that my mind could digest was that I was being led into Scotland Yard, Sherlock right behind me.

I had never been slapped before. Very unlikely,but true. Mum never even whipped my bum when I was young, mainly because I was hardly ever bad, and whenever I was, I blamed it on one of my brothers.

I never imagined that being slapped would hurt so much. Yes, I did know the body's effects to it, like sometimes if the force was strong enough the area would be bruised. But I didn't know that it felt like the wind flashing against your face, except for the fact that it was one hundred times harder.

I was still thinking about slaps and slapping when we were left by the officers who had to get some paperwork. I didn't even realise we were handcuffed to some uncomfortable metal chairs until Sherlock was picking the lock.

"We only have a minute or two to disappear before they get back," Sherlock said once he was done, rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing into them again.

"So what are we going to do?" I asked, finally back into the realm of reality, studying my surroundings.

There have only been a few times when I have been inside of Scotland Yard, and every time I have reached the same conclusion: White and boring like the morgue, crowded and stuffy like the cafeteria, but no smell of mystery meat or some stranger's spleen. And desks. Lots and lots of desks that made it hard to walk freely around, not much different from wheely body carts, except these were topped with paperwork and family pictures, not cadavers.

"Here," Sherlock said, motioning for me to follow. It wasn't until I walked in before I noticed where he took me to hide.

The Men's bathroom.

"Sherlock-" I said in protest, trying to look anywhere but at the urinals, thanking God that no one was inside.

"Oh please, you've had your fill of complaining today," Sherlock said, entering one of the stalls. "We need somewhere to hide. They would never think of looking here, especially for you."

"But won't someone notice my shoes?" I asked, half giving in and entering one of the stalls.

I heard Sherlock snort. I decided that was another way of him saying, "No of course not, Molly, you imbecile," which I admit was a lot nicer than him actually saying it.

We waited for what seemed like days, but could not have been more than thirty minutes. Fortunately, the only person who entered the entirety of the time was a snobbish man who had just come in to check his hair.

"Now," Sherlock said, opening his stall, "We find John. He is sure to be in there, it would not be very probable for them to take him into a higher security room."

Sherlock was right. Again. In fact, if I had a pound for every time Sherlock was wrong, I would be living out on the streets. So maybe I should stop repeating, "Sherlock was right" and save it for a period where everything he says is wrong, which I doubt will ever happen in a thousand years.

John didn't recognize us, thankfully. When I say thankfully, I mean that if he did recognize us, he would be too busy scolding Sherlock about morals and how the next time he pretends to die he should contact John beforehand.

"Who're you?" he asked as Sherlock and I entered, noticing that we weren't accompanied by any officers. I had nearly forgot that we had the make-up still on and that I probably looked like an old hag in this stupid yellow dress.

"You're saviours," Sherlock muttered in a fake accent that even threw me off for a second. He dashed to the lock, picked it, murmuring something about ancient security under his breath.

"Th-thank you..." John said, stepping gingerly out of his cell, looking like he was expecting the alarm to go off at any time.

"We haven't got much time." I pushed him out the door.

We made it out without anyone noticing, finally emerging into the back lot that Sherlock and I had been in nearly forty minutes before.

"How can I ever repay you?" John said, looking around for his wallet, then remembering he didn't have it anymore, gave up the search.

"Just don't get into any more trouble," Sherlock said.

"And don't get caught," I added. "It would be a pain to bust you out again." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock give me a miniscule smirk of approval. Or at least that's what I thought it was. He could have just been happy to see John again.

"I'll keep that in mind," John said. "Oh! Er... I'm sorry to ask you of this, but do you have a place where I could stay? At least for a night or two?"

Sherlock said, "Yes, of course, you are welcome anytime" just when I said, "No, you can't sorry."

John stared at us both eyebrows raised.

"We live in boxes, you see," I improvised, knowing that he wasn't going to buy it, but still giving it a try. "It's hard enough to fit two of us in there as it is. Maybe if we upgraded to a 10 by 12 you could join us-" I was cut off by a sharp jab in my ribs. If there was one thing I knew was more painful than slaps, it was jabs.

"We live in a flat on Jerman Road," Sherlock said flatly, ignoring my no-not-going-to-happen-he'll-find-us-out look in my eyes.

"Oh, excellent, I know a friend who lives down there," John said with a smile.

I grimaced, knowing how surprised he'd be when he found out that_ I'm_ that friend.

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><p><strong><strong>I promise that I will have the next chapter up by October 21, and if I don't, you still have full rights to send angry messages into my inbox. Please remember to review. Constructive criticism is always welcome!<strong>**


	14. Chapter 14

_John Watson_

It would have been impossible for me to express my gratitude towards this odd couple who had helped me escape from Scotland Yard.

And when I say 'odd', I really do mean it; Sherlock would have been proud to see me use the deducting skills he taught me so well.

The old woman, who had no wrinkles but had to be at least fifty years old considering the bags under her eyes, her gait, and graying hair, made it a point to look anywhere but at me and the elderly man. Her cheeks were scarlet, and faintly resembled little Molly Hooper. In fact, it was almost uncanny how alike she and the pathologist were; Small eyes, nervous stance, stuttering chatter.

The man, who liked to walked unusually close to me, sadly reminded me of Sherlock. He even had Sherlock's high cheekbones. But, alas, he could not be the Great Detective; I had seen him die. I knew there was no way Sherlock could have faked it, no matter how many times I tried to convince myself otherwise.

We walked slowly to their flat, which was yet another reason why this man wasn't Sherlock; Sherlock would have had a fit if we were going slower than a marathon runner. When we finally got to the flat, I could have sworn we had gone into Molly's building, but I must have been mistaken. I didn't know the address quite well, and I was bound to be a little on the loony side after just escaping from a jail cell I had been in for nearly a day because I was accused of a crime I did not commit.

But when we walked into the room, I knew that my two companions were liars, and all feelings of gratitude were immediately replaced with anger and annoyance. The main room was full of plush, colourful, furniture, with junk spread all over the ground that it made it hard to walk. But it wasn't just any kind of junk. It wasn't old couple junk, like false teeth and tiny figurines either. It was Sherlock junk.

The thing about Sherlock junk is that it is orderly, messy, and intelligent all at the same time. It has patterns, like, for instance, the one time we had a case where an old cook had been murdered, Sherlock researched up everything that had to do with food. Thus, for nearly three weeks, our flat was covered with cookbooks from every language possible, crumbs from food he had decided to try as experiments, and the smell of burnt food lingered in the air, even after the case was solved.

There are also a few constants to Sherlock junk, like having at least twelve encyclopedias opened at a time, random body parts in the kitchen or bathroom, and mind puzzles crumpled up and thrown every which way because they were either too easy or too complicated.

This flat was _full_ of Sherlock junk, with an underlying taste of Molly.

I turned to look at them both, Molly extremely nervous, fiddling with the hem of her dress, Sherlock cool and comfortable, acting, as always, like he was the most important person in the room. Did they really think I wouldn't find out sooner or later? And Sherlock was one hell of a bastard for living after his suicide and not telling me, if you'll please excuse my language, dear reader.

"Tell me, please," I said. "Where I might find the loo?"

Molly nodded towards a door near the kitchen.

"Thank you. And am I to be expecting eyeballs or toes in the tub?"

Sherlock smirked, unsurprised that I had figured it out, unlike Molly, who was so taken aback that I had a sudden urge to hold her arm so she wouldn't fall back in a faint. "Both," Sherlock said.

And then I punched him. Hard. So hard, that if I was not a doctor and knew the symptoms to a broken hand, I would have thought it mine was shattered.

My sudden burst of violence caused Molly to scream and jump back away from me, both hands covering her mouth in horror as Sherlock fell to the floor, hand rubbing his jaw.

"What was that for?" he grunted, his voice slurred.

"What do you think?" I asked angrily, even though I knew he didn't have a clue. "You died!"

"I didn't know it was a crime for one to become deceased," Sherlock complained, getting up.

"It isn't if you really are dead."

"John does have a-"

"This matter doesn't concern you, Molly, thank you very much," Sherlock growled whirling over to Molly, sending her flying head over heels to her room, and I thought I might have heard a sob. Sherlock looked like he immediately regretted his action, but resumed his cold stature when he turned back to me. I personally liked being alone to discuss with Sherlock, at least for now.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded.

"I...I couldn't." He wouldn't look at me.

"And why the hell not?"

"I had to be sure that you were safe first. That there was no way any of Moriarty's followers could get to you if I revealed to you that I was alive."

"I'm sorry, but if you haven't noticed, I was being held as a suspect in Scotland Yard. That's not exactly safe in my mind. Is it in yours?"

"Actually, yes. Moriarty's followers would never had attempted to access you there."

"Quite true, quite true," said a voice from the doorway. A high, cold voice, that was like Moriarty's, and yet not at all like his.

We both turned to see a tall man with dark brown hair slicked back to reveal what would be a handsome face if it was not covered in scars.

"That is why we waited for you to go fetch him for us, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowed. This was one of the only times John had seen confused and surprised at the same time.

"Sebastian Moran," the man said coolly. "Get 'em, boys." He snapped his fingers and to brutish men walked in, obviously intending to take us away. But I wouldn't let them do that without a fight. I raised both of my arms, and Sherlock did the same.

"Please, don't be like this," Sebastian said, reaching inside his coat and taking out a shimmering gun. "I would hate to have bloodshed."

We both lowered our hands as the two men stepped closer, cloths in their hands that were bathed in chloroform.

"G'dnight, have sweet dreams," Sebastian said as I fell into blackness. "Boys, don't forget the girl."

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><p><strong>Sorry for another cliffhanger! Please review :)<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

_Molly Hooper_

A light breeze on my cheek awoke me from my slumber. My head was foggy and made it hard for me to think. Where was I? Why do my arms and feet hurt? Why is there so much wind?

I blinked open my eyes, trying to find out where I was and how I should escape. But all I could see was a city street, with a small bench, people walking past with their heads down, going on with their daily business, and cars whizzing by, on some great hurry to get to wherever they were going as soon as possible.

And then I realized that I was looking _down _onto this scene. I also seemed to be very high above it, nearly twenty metres up, and I had to bite my cheek until it started to bleed to prevent me from screaming.

I closed my eyes and told myself to breathe.

_One, breathe. Two, breathe. Three, breathe..._

It was still hard to control my emotions, but at least I could still manage my mind. In fact, I was proud that I hadn't lost it already.

"Oh good, they're awakening," a man said from behind me. For a second I thought it was Moriarty, my heart pounding even faster, but I realized that his voice was slightly deeper and more manly, and, with a small smirk, I remembered Moriarty was dead. "Be ready to hold back Sherlock."

Sherlock. He was here. A small blossom of hope planted itself inside me. He would save me. At least, if he were able or willing to save me.

"What's happening?" I heard Sherlock say somewhat groggily.

"Take a good look around and see."

"Why...Why are Molly and John tied to chairs?"

"Are you feeling alright? Moriarty seemed to put you in the highest respects, but I personally find you quite slow."

"I have been knocked out for about three hours, judging from the position of the sun and the time you arrived at Molly's flat, I think I deserve a chance to at least recuperate," Sherlock barked. I could almost _feel_ his ego radiating from him.

"If that's what you think you deserve, then fine. We'll give you ten minutes to get a grip on yourself, and then we'll explain the rules and start the game."

"Rules?"

"Every game must have rules, Mr. Holmes, otherwise it would be a mess whenever someone played."

"Game?"

A frustrated sigh came from the man. "Yes, a game, please do keep up."

It was almost funny how Sherlock was getting a taste of his own medicine, although most of the humour was washed away with the fact that we were all in great peril.

"Are you ready for me to explain the rules?" the man asked several minutes later. My hands and feet had started to lose their feeling, the ropes I'm sure were giving me a burn that would be hard to get rid of once I was released, if I ever was going to be released.

Sherlock must have nodded, or given some other sort of sign for the man to go on, for he continued. "As you can see, here are your two most recent flatmates, both in quite perilous situations, if I do say so myself. What you have to do is choose _one_ of them to survive...The one you do not choose will fall down to their death. If you cannot make a decision in ten minutes, _both_ will fall." My heart started to beat so loudly I was sure everyone on earth could hear me. He was going to choose John. There was no question of it. I had to accept my fate now, for if I didn't I knew I was going to break down in front of everyone, and I didn't want Sherlock to think I was cowardice, not in my last minutes with him.

"What if I chose myself?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Not an option. You see, Moriarty wanted to see you dead... I want to see you _suffer_."

"What have I ever done to you?" Sherlock demanded.

"Jim is dead because of you," the man cried. "You are the reason he killed himself. I died along with him that day. We had been partners for years. Nothing could pull us apart, at least not until you came along." This was all starting to sound like a movie I would watch while eating bucketfuls of ice-cream after a break-up, except instead of jealous schoolgirls and only being on the TV screen, they were insane serial killers, and it was very, very real. "You were the end of him. And now, I want you to feel just as I did that day. Your ten minutes starts now."

I had ten minutes, maybe even less, to live. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I kept them from falling. I had to be strong.

"Nine more minutes."

I thought of my mother, about how I hadn't talked to her in at least five months, how I had no chance to tell her good-bye and that I loved her. I thought about Toby, and how he would curl up in my lap whenever I had a bad day. I realized with a jolt that I hadn't fed him today and he was probably counting down every second until I got home, probably starving, not knowing he would never see me again.

"Eight minutes."

The tears started to fall, even though I had tried to blink them back. I thought about Sherlock and wondered if he would miss me, if he would regret choosing John over me.

Probably not.

"Seven minutes."

I thought of all of the places I'd never go to, of all the movies and books I'd never enjoy, of the man I'd never get to marry, of the children I'd never have.

"Six minutes."

I wondered who would come to my funeral. John would, probably. He'd get a bouquet of flowers from that store near 221B, yellow ones, because he would know they'd make me happy, even though we barely ever talked. All of my collegues would come. Mum would, and so would Dad. Lestrade would most likely stop by for a few minutes to pay his respects. All of my friends would definitely come and cry, just as I would at their funeral.

Would Sherlock come?

"Five minutes."

I was bawling now. I couldn't help it. I was about to die in five minutes. It was inevitable. The only way I'd survive was if Sherlock picked me over John, which would never happen in a thousand years. I felt ashamed, because I knew everyone could hear me. They all probably thought that I was crying so Sherlock would pick me instead, so I'd look weak and afraid, enhancing my chances of survival.

But they couldn't be any more wrong.

"Four min-"

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted. "Could I...Could I talk to them? Just one last time? Then I'll make my decision."

The man was quiet, obviously thinking it over. A spark of hope flickered up inside me. I could say good-bye. I could order him to say good-bye to Mum and Dad, to my friends and collegues, to Toby, and remind him to feed him when they got home without me. I would not have to die without my proper farewells.

"Alright," the man said. I'll give you two minutes each, and then you'll have to decide."

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><p><strong>Just going to leave you hanging there for a little while...<strong>

**Sorry for the real angsty stuff, I'm listening to "Last Time" by Taylor Swift, which kind of explains it. Also, sorry for the long update...It was hard for me to write this. Next chap will probably be up the 22 or 23 of December, as a Christmas present :)**

**Anywho, how did you like it? Who do you think Sherlock will choose? Or do you think he has a trick up his sleeve? **


	16. Chapter 16

_Sherlock Holmes_

"Thank you." I don't think Sebastian knew how much it took for me to say those simple two words. My pride felt a stinging pain at the expression of gratitude, and to me that was like a two stabs to the chest.

"Your time starts now," Sebastian said, having ignored my statement and that made it all the worse. My pride whined like a hurt puppy as I went to John. I kneeled down so I could be eye-level with him, and I found that he was surprisingly calm. It wasn't just an act either; his entire demeanor had an aura of serenity.

"You need to pick Molly," he whispered so low that I could barely hear him, let alone the man standing on guard right behind him.

"I am," I said at the same volume, perhaps even quieter. It was crucial that no one else would be able to hear us. It more than likely John would ask me of my scheme.

He looked at me, eyebrow cocked. "You have a plan, don't you?" It was more of a statement than a question, but I answered anyway.

"Obviously," I smirked. He smiled out of relief.

"How?" he asked.

"Lestrade. I set out what you might call a 'trail of breadcrumbs'. If he has half a brain, he'll be here in a minute or two."

"You're brilliant, you know that."

"Of course."

"Time," Sebastian drawled, fighting back a yawn.

I got up, silently saying good-bye to John with a slight nod of the head, and crossed over to Molly. She was crying louder then ever. I kneeled down beside her, much closer to her than I had been with John.

"Say good-bye for me, please," she said nasally through her tears.

"Molly-" I tried to interject, but she wouldn't have it.

"Let me finish, Sherlock." She took a deep breath. "Say good-bye to my Mum and Dad for me, please. At least do that for me."

"Molly-" I tried once again.

She ignored me. "If you could, make sure Toby goes to a good home. And when you get back, feed him an extra-large meal, because I forgot this morning. And could you please-"

I stopped her from talking the only way I knew, which was placing my lips on hers. This surprised her, but not even half as much as it startled me. We stayed in that position for only a few seconds before I leaned away from her. She was staring at me wide-eyed and her cheeks were flushed.

"Sher-Sherlock?"

"You're not going to die, Molly," I said, thankful that I could get finally get a few words in. "I'm choosing you."

"Why?"

"Because I love you." It was a lie, at least that's what I thought it was when I first thought it. But then when I said it, it felt a little true. I leaned in and kissed her again, this time leaving my mind blank, relishing in the softness of her lips and the electricity running down my spine. I had only done it because it would stun her into silence and stop her crying, but as every moment passed with our lips pressed together, the more I started to enjoy the feeling.

We were in that position when Lestrade came. He barged in through the door that connected the roof of St. Barts to the rest of the building, gun pointed at Sebastian, as the rest of Scotland Yard followed him up.

I pulled quickly away from Molly and wiped my mouth with my coat sleeve.

"Good. I thought you'd never show up," I said to Lestrade, walking briskly to his side.

"You sure have a lot of nerve, Sherlock," Lestrade growled.

"What?" I asked, genuinely having no idea what he was talking about.

"Only about four hours ago I learned that you were alive, at the same time having to chase you all around London and finally having you ask me get all the force to St. Barts to capture the 'actual' criminal."

"And you did it excellently, Detective Inspector. You deserve a medal. Now, if you don't mind, you should untie my two friends and let them down from this absurdly tall building. I'll explain everything to you all down there."

I started to the door when Sebastian called out, his voice shaking with anger, "You win this time, Sherlock. But mark my words-"

"You'll get me next time, etc., etc., like I haven't heard _that_ one before." I laughed, disappearing behind the door.

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><p><strong>Sorry for the kind of mushy part in the middle, but there's the kiss(es) I promised you all! Also, sorry for the shortness, but the next chapter is going to be longer than usual.<strong>

**Please review and tell me what you think! :)**


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